The world shifted irrevocably the day the words "advanced bowel cancer with metastases to the liver" were spoken, stark and unyielding in that hospital office. It was January 2014, and what followed was not a honeymoon, but three months of chemotherapy, a brutal introduction to a new reality. Yet, even in the face of such devastating news, a different kind of fight ignited within me, one that extended beyond my own survival.
My journey through the labyrinth of treatment became a testament to resilience, marked by fifty chemotherapy sessions, a round of radiotherapy, and five major operations. Each procedure, each infusion, was a desperate grasp for more time, for more moments with my beloved wife and our five children. I pushed my body to its limits, accepting every possible intervention, for every second counted.
But as I navigated this intensely personal battle, a profound injustice became glaringly clear: the postcode lottery of cancer care in Wales. I was denied access to Cetuximab, a life-prolonging drug readily available to patients just across the border in England. The disparity was unacceptable, a cruel twist of fate for those of us living in Wales. This revelation sparked the "Hawl i Fyw" – "Right to Live" or "Fighting Chance" – campaign, a defiant stand against a system that seemed to put a price on Welsh lives.
The campaign became a powerful force, attracting widespread public support and media attention. It wasn't just about me; it was about shining a light on the inequity and ensuring that no other Welsh patient would face such a cruel dilemma. The irony was not lost on me that, despite my tireless lobbying of the Welsh Government, I had to move to England myself to receive the very treatment I was fighting for others to access in Wales. This period, though successful in shrinking my tumours and allowing further surgeries, was "extremely stressful and distressing."
Throughout this ordeal, I found solace and purpose in sharing my experience, particularly the mental health aspects of living with a terminal illness. Having worked for the NHS in child and adolescent mental health, I understood the profound impact of anxiety and low mood. I wanted to break down the fear surrounding cancer, to encourage open conversations, and to offer guidance to others facing similar struggles. My charity, Tîm Irfon, raised over £150,000 for the Alaw Cancer Ward at Ysbyty Gwynedd, where I received much of my treatment, a testament to the collective spirit of hope and generosity.
Even as my body grew tired, my mind remained strong, driven by the desire to leave a lasting legacy for my children. This autobiography became that chronicle, a record of my life, my humour, the elation and heartbreak, and my unwavering belief that everyone has the right to live, to fight for their existence, and to challenge systems that deny that fundamental right. I urged others not to passively accept what politicians and doctors tell them, but to seek their own answers, for life, after all, is a precious, non-negotiable right.
